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As I pulled away, I had a thought and took a quick turn down Main Street to the bus depot. When I looked at the parking lot, I saw that Duncan's scooter was gone. He had found a way home. That's good, I thought. Maybe he and his mother would make peace and start anew. Was that foolish even to consider? Maybe, maybe not. The discovery and death of his father had to have some serious effect on him. Maybe he would put some of his own demons to bed. I was even a little envious.
Of course, I wondered if he would be calling me. I hurried back to the house to wait. I feared that if he called the cafe first, Aunt Zipporah either wouldn't let me know or might even say something to him to discourage him from calling me here. I was on pins and needles about it and couldn't stop wondering. There was no point in trying to sleep. I nibbled on some bread and butter and tried watching television, but I neither heard nor saw what I was watching. My mind had truly left my body behind.
Finally, after nearly two hours of waiting, I ventured a call to the cafe. I could hear the commotion in the background when Mrs. Mallen answered. I was going to hang up, but Aunt Zipporah heard it was me and got on the phone.
"Are you all right?" she asked quickly.
"Yes. I hear you're really busy. That makes me feel bad."
"It's under control, Alice. Stop worrying about it." "Okay." Dared I ask her? I couldn't help it. "Has anyone . . . have you heard anything . ."
"He didn't call here for you, Alice. Get some sleep. Please," she begged.
"Right. I'll see you later."
"I hope not. I hope you'll be in a deep sleep," she said.
I had to laugh at that wishful thinking. I did start for bed after we spoke.
And then, as I brushed my teeth, I thought about Duncan's mother. Despite my near promise to Aunt Zipporah, I couldn't put his mother out of my mind. I did have some information for her. I knew he was back. By now she must be home, too, I thought. What halm could there be in a phone call letting her know I was thinking about her? And
perhaps Duncan would answer. I wouldn't try to carry on a long conversation with him, but I'd want him to know I had a great deal of confusion about him and the things he had told me.
Twice I started for the phone, and twice I turned back.
This is stupid, I thought and seized the receiver with such force that the third time, I almost ripped the phone out of the wall. I dialed the number slowly, hesitating on the final digit, then closing my eyes and doing it.
It rang and rang. On the fourth ring, Duncan's mother answered.
"It's Alice," I said.
Before I could ask anything else, she asked, "Is he at your house now? Is he all right?"
"No, he's not here. Didn't he come home yet?"
"Yes," she said. "He came home. I told him you had come to the house and that you and I had a nice conversation and you were helping me, but that seemed to make him even more upset. I didn't know what to say. Where would he go?"
"I don't know," I said. "If he does come here, I'll make him go home."
"Yes, he should come home. Blessings, dear," she added and hung up quickly.
She probably didn't want to tie up her telephone line in case he did call her or someone did.
Someone like the police, I thought, and suddenly my memory of all of Craig's anger at his mother came rolling back in a thunderous replay. I was back in that car trying to get him to slow down and he was caught up in a bitter, self-destructive rage. He was in a place he would never have been in if he hadn't been involved with me.
Where was Duncan?
On what highway of bitterness and selfdestruction was he traveling? I stood there thinking about it and decided to go out to check the studio. After all, once before he had hidden himself there.
Because of the heavily overcast sky, it was pitch dark in the back now. The little illumination that spilled out of the rear windows outlined the studio, but if he was in there, he hadn't put on any lights. Nevertheless, I made my way to the studio door, opened it and then turned on the lights. Everything looked the way I had left it. My painting of the doe was still on the floor, facedown.
"Duncan?" I called, looking toward the bathroom. "Are you here?"
The sound of my own heart thumping was all that filled my ears. Nevertheless, I crossed the room to look into the bathroom. It was empty. I turned off the lights and returned to the house. Then I went out front and looked up and down the road that ran past us, listening for the sound of his scooter. The threat of oncoming rain rode on the shoulders of the wind building out of the southeast. It rustled leaves and whistled as it passed over and through the roof gutters that would soon carry the runoff down and away. The thick darkness and otherwise sense of emptiness reminded me of a line in a Shakespearean play-- "when graveyards yawn."
I folded my arms around myself protectively. It was a good time for ghosts and spirits to emerge to visit the living and remind them of what awaited beyond the last heartbeat. It was not a time to be alone and deeply upset. Somewhere out there, Duncan Winning was deeply troubled and surely visited by the same feelings and forebodings I was sensing around me.
My anger and my curiosity gave way to sympathy, to compassion and understanding. After all, I couldn't stop thinking about all those nights I had spent alone out there, my mind reeling with confusion and pain, wondering why I had been brought into this world. Despite the lies he told and despite whatever reason he had for telling them, we were still in a real sense birds of a feather.
